


today, a difference

by smithens



Series: si l'on n'a pas de soleil, il faut en faire un [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childbirth, Class Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Gay Male Character, Gen, Intentional Baby Acquisition, Lesbian Character, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: The first hours of a new arrival.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Sybil Crawley
Series: si l'on n'a pas de soleil, il faut en faire un [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051889
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	today, a difference

**Author's Note:**

> **content notes:** references to/discussion of/allusions to, death in childbirth, nonviable pregnancy, mental health issues, physical trauma, child abuse, homophobia
> 
> timeline as compared to canon is a little fuzzy but just go with it

**April 1922  
Camberwell, London**

He'd had an idea to start off with something like _sorry to telephone so late_ (even though he isn't) but as soon as he hears somebody on the other end three words fall out of his mouth in a jumble: "Sybil's in labour."

"What?"

"It's Barrow, she's in labour and they've sent some– Her Ladyship's gone and sent–"

"Mr Barrow-"

"–some Harley Street doctor in but I don't think he knows what he's talking about–"

"Slow down, Mr Barrow–"

"–'cause it doesn't look right to me, she's not _herself_ but he won't listen to a word I say now will he–"

"If you could–"

"–I know you're not in obstetrics," or even all that brilliant a doctor but compared to what they've _got_ he may as well be the latest winner of the Nobel Prize in Physiology, "but it's the middle of the night and we can't get ahold– I can't get ahold of the midwife and I don't know who else to–"

" _Barrow._ "

"Yessir."

The fact that he's still got that bloody instinct four years out (and four years _removed_ ) infuriates him but he hasn't got the time nor the head to be proper angry about it now.

"I cannot help you if I cannot comprehend you."

"Yes, Dr Clarkson."

"You're saying, Lady Sybil is giving birth, or will be shortly–"

"Yes."

"And there is a doctor present–"

"Sir Philip Tapsell."

"–who won't address your concerns about her condition."

" _Yes,_ and–"

"What _are_ your concerns?"

So he explains it, all of it, everything he can think of that might matter, how she can't stand the lamp to be on and the funny way of talking and her swollen ankles and puffy eyes and the headaches and the nausea, all that, and he's not yet finished giving the details before he's interrupted by a voice he remembers hearing before only when somebody's got an arm that has to be amputated before sepsis sets in or something else he doesn't want to be reminded of when _his wife is about to give birth to their child_ :

"Mr Barrow, you must listen to me very carefully," Clarkson says, urgent, insistent. "Lady Sybil may be in grave danger, _do you understand me?_ "

* * *

Never in his life (well, until things shook out as they did) had he ever thought he'd get to experience what he is now but here he is even so, hanging about in a hospital at two o'clock in the morning waiting for somebody to tell him what's what about his wife and his child.

Then, there are multiple reasons for that, aren't there? Hospitals aren't meant to be the setting for scenes like this.

Given how much of their life together has revolved around them, though, he supposes it makes sense. Only it would be much nicer if they hadn't had to rush here in the middle of the night for fear of…

Well.

That's what he's waiting on, he supposes.

He's not one for bad news and he's not one for losing people, neither. The former about the latter is the worst it can get.

But she'll be all right. She's strong. She made it through the VAD course and the war and the flu and the move and nursing college and the _pregnancy itself,_ which Thomas will _not_ look back upon fondly in the future, blimey, not to mention giving up being a lady, eloping with a homosexual servant and holding a job as a married woman and then for a little while a pregnant one, which to him seems about ten times as hard as doing it as an abnormal footman with a penchant for nicking things, so really childbirth shouldn't be a problem.

It's not under her control, though, this. Not like the other things were. Things may've been out of sorts and unpredictable but never was her own body setting her up for a disaster, never was it working against her.

And Thomas can't do a thing about any of it.

Instead he just gets to sit here struggling to keep his eyes open. They'd got up this time the previous day because she'd been heaving up everything in her stomach and then some, and he wishes he'd thought about any of this then 'cause it sounds like her chances would've been better if he hadn't found out at the very last second she had to do this in hospital to have any chance of _surviving._ Any chance of their _baby_ surviving. If he had to choose which one to keep around he knows exactly whom, no question.

He doesn't have to and can't anyway, so it's a shameful thought. Her going through nine months of that to end up with a stillborn or whatever other horrifying possibility would be harder on her than anything else she's ever had to face, he _knows_ that, it'd be hell for them both, but in the end she's the one who's already got a life and she's the one he's attached himself to til death do they part, and he doesn't want to _part_ any time soon.

He does love her, he thinks. Not like a normal man would, no, but he loves her more than anybody he's known in his life before and if she died now it would be his fault and he'd never, ever forgive himself for it, not for as long as he lived.

* * *

Sybil doesn't die.

When he sees her she's fast asleep, her hair in a tangle, sweat-soaked, but she is very much alive: her chest rises and falls in rhythm, her cheeks are flushed. She doesn't look off like she did before.

He's about to panic about the conspicuous lack of a newborn when a nurse comes along, holding a neat and tidy bundle with a small head poking out of it. A head full of wispy jet-dark hair. He hadn't even known they could do that, have hair on already, but it _does._ Their baby does.

The nurse asks if he'd like to hold her.

"Her?"

She nods. "You have a daughter, Mr Barrow."

He has a _daughter._ They have a daughter. Mad. Who would ever have guessed the two of them would have a _daughter?_ That they'd make a life and that the life would turn out like this, a sleeping little girl with red skin and hair on her head and a nose that he thinks looks like Sybil's but he can't be sure, yet, lips maybe like his own, she's got so many things about her and he wants to know them all...

Once he has her in his arms he doesn't want to ever let go.

He wonders if his own dad ever felt like that, and if so, when it went away. When he changed his mind. He was always told he'd _understand_ , if he ever grew up and had his own children like he was meant to… understand what happened to him and why he deserved it, that sort of thing. Like he was some problem no parent should have to put up with, and if he got _lucky_ somehow and brought up children that _didn't_ turn out like himself...

Looking down at his daughter he doesn't see how anybody anywhere could think such things about a child.

* * *

"...well, sounds like you'll have a scar, but that's it, as long as we keep an eye on you," he tells her. He can't tell if she's actually listening or not and he can't blame her if she isn't, given the sleeping bundle of joy in her arms. It took the doctor several tries to get his attention when he'd held her, himself, and he wasn't even groggy from anaesthetic or anything… besides, he's got his eyes the same place she has. "Have to be good about antiseptic, and such, but that's why they're keeping you over a few days… and they've been giving you injections with epsom salts in."

As well as a fuck of a lot of morphine.

"Oh, magnesium sulfates."

"Yes. And they've asked we make regular appointments to check for malignant hypertension and albuminuria, after you've been discharged."

"All right."

If it weren't for _oh,_ _magnesium sulfates_ he'd be sure every word out of his mouth was going in one ear, out the other and missing everything in between...

"But besides that, no, nothing but a scar… the doctor wanted to make certain I knew that bit."

"Well, I wasn't expecting to be without one."

"That's just logic, isn't it, when they do a surgery? But, er, I think he meant 'cause…"

He trails off, turns his hand in a gesture that doesn't actually have anything to do with what he means. But she's smart, she can figure it out.

Sybil _does_ look up at him then, her nose wrinkled. "Really!"

It had been an awkward conversation, to say the least.

Thomas nods. "You'd think husbands'd have something else on their mind, when their wives've just gone through that and they've got a _baby_ in the picture, but–"

" _You_ would," Sybil interrupts. "And that's why you're mine."

So it is.

He's sure he'd think the same even if they were normal (though none of this would have happened if they were normal), as it seems obvious that there are more pressing things to worry about. How anybody would have time for that when they've got a newborn is beyond him. They're a handful; he knows that much.

He'll know it even more soon enough.

Thomas reaches over to lay his hand at the back of her ( _his daughter's_ ) tiny head, his thumb just above her little ear… God, he didn't know it would feel like this. That it would take him over so much. He feels as if he could swim the Atlantic, or something. Like his whole life's been leading up to this—no matter what he'd always thought, no matter what anybody had told him, that this was what was always meant to happen.

For both of them.

She's the dearest thing he's ever laid eyes upon in his life.

"We've still got to give her a name, you know."

Sybil laughs. "Yes, we have, haven't we?"

And then they've got to get her Christened, and get it registered, and announce it, probably, given her parents, although maybe they'll want to be responsible for that… No matter how it happens, though, there's plenty to take care of. Arranging most of it will fall on him but he's been preparing for that for the last six months so any problems that come of it are not going to be his fault.

"...don't be cross, but I don't think I like any of the ones on our list," Sybil says, thoughtful. "They don't suit her… We'll have to think about it."

"I was hoping you'd say that, in fact."

"Good, because we _have_ to agree." She has more fervor than he has, when she's the only one between them who's actually done anything. She's bound to be in pain, too, having been sliced open all the way into an organ, pain medicine can't do _that_ much, but she's not showing it much if she is. It'd be a shocker if he didn't know her so well. "And it has to be right. She'll be stuck with it for the rest of her life, after all."

"Well, as long as we decide soon…"

"We will."

So certain. He's always liked that about her. The strong will. Even before he knew her as a person, he liked it. (Sometimes just because it was entertaining to watch in the dining room, but that counts for something, surely.) And it was what drew them together in the end, was her having that when somebody they were looking after didn't, and even though they both wish they could turn back the clock on that one…

Here they are. Married and _parents._

They remain silent after that, just looking at the baby, at their daughter. At the person they _made_. Sybil did most of the work, but even so, they brought this little girl into the world and now they get to keep her here. She's small (but healthy, they were told, and right on time, and sometimes in cases like this neither of those things are true) and she has dark hair and eyelashes, and little ears like theirs and a little nose and red lips and cheeks, a round face, and her hands are tiny but they can already grasp for things, she can already tug at Sybil's gown and hold Thomas's finger, when she's only been in the world for a handful of hours…

They're interrupted by a nurse barging in. The baby's eyes open—they're more like Sybil's than his, he thinks, but she said the opposite, said the colour may be the same but there's something _about_ them that's like him—and then she's crying.

He doesn't love _that._

"I'm to help you again with nursing, Mrs Barrow," the nurse says, valiantly ignoring his glare as she bustles in to set up a sphygmomanometer and lay out various things he assumes he is unfamiliar with because they'd never be seen in a men's ward. "And I'll give you something more for the pain, after– _Mr_ Barrow, if you wouldn't mind…"

She gestures toward the door. Sybil frowns but responds to his look of question with only a wave of her hand. "Remember, we really must ring–"

_Eurgh._

"...Nurse, is there a telephone I might borrow?"

* * *

"Hello, you've reached Downton Abbey, this is Mr Carson, the butler speaking."

Loathe though he is to stand around listening to that voice, Thomas waits his turn before he speaks and everything. "Mr Carson," he says. His voice doesn't sound as stiff as it usually would, talking to him. He's not sure if he prefers that or not—but maybe it'll lend credibility, if he sounds nice and happy. Get him to do what he wants (not that _he_ wants to do this, necessarily…) without making a fuss about it.

"Mr Barrow."

Otherwise this is going to be like pulling teeth.

"Would you put Lord Grantham on, please?"

"And may I ask _why_ I am to wake His Lordship at six o'clock in the morning on a _Sunday_?"

_Because he doesn't know the meaning of a week-end?_

_Because I'm his son-in-law and I said so?_

_Because..._

"...it's Sunday?"

"Yes, Mr Barrow, it is."

He can _hear_ the derisive twist in his lip but it doesn't matter, much, because she was born on a _Sunday_ … he's never been all too pious, nor superstitious, but it's good luck, isn't it? What with the Sabbath being blessed and all. That's what they say. He can't remember the nursery rhyme nor the old wives' tale for the life of him but it _is_ something people think, if he's remembering right. Not that he's ever believed in that before but he will now, if it makes a difference.

" _Mr Barrow_? Are you still there?"

So much as they both wish otherwise, yes.

"Well," Thomas says, feeling choked up all of a sudden, he clears his throat and manages to sound like his ordinary self for once, "we thought he might like to know he's got a granddaughter, but if you disagree…"

" _Ah,_ " Carson says. Caught halfway between disgust and delight, Thomas can tell, though he thinks maybe the latter will win out this time. "No! No, certainly not—I shall wake His Lordship myself."

Being woken up by Carson hours before he's meant to be out of bed sounds like a nightmare, personally, but he holds his tongue except to say, "thank you, Mr Carson," and then the telephone's off the hook. He can vaguely hear the sounds of downstairs in the morning—the pitter-patter of hallboys running all over the place, the clang of a pail from the scullery maid (he pictures it as Daisy but it hasn't been for years), the sharp voice of Mrs Hughes, chastising a maid for something he can't make out, a door snapping shut–

And then Mrs Hughes again.

"Congratulations, Mr Barrow," she says.

He thinks she might even mean it.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

"And mother and child are both well?"

"Yes, Mrs Hughes," he says, sounding like an obedient schoolboy. _It's Mrs Hughes,_ he reminds himself, _and she's been the nicest of the lot since it all happened, so get over yourself._ "Er, she– Sybil had to have a caesarean section, but she's quite well, yes, and the baby wasn't affected or anything, she's..."

Lamely he trails off, wondering what's appropriate to actually _say._ He doesn't have to interact with 'the servants' much anymore, and he forgets the rules when he's not around people who've been playing by them all their lives.

"Well, I'm very happy to hear it."

Now that he's said it already he figures he didn't need to tell her about the surgery, but he hasn't slept in a day or more and he's stopped using his brain as a result.

"How about yourself?"

"Me?"

"Are _you_ well?"

"Oh, I–" He can't actually remember the last time somebody asked him that question. "Yes," he decides, "yes, I'm very well." He pauses. "I'm very happy."

It feels like something he shouldn't admit to.

"I don't think anyone could begrudge you that," Mrs Hughes tells him, "we all deserve happiness now and again– ah, here's His Lordship now."

He doesn't even have time to say goodbye before Lord Grantham's shouting into the telephone: "Thomas? What is it? What's happened?"

Well, he has to hand it to Carson... What'd he tell him, _Thomas is on the telephone and it's urgent?_

Then, maybe it wasn't malicious. Maybe he just wanted him to hear it from the right person.

_Unlikely._

"Well, I'm just calling because–"

But he realises halfway through his sentence that he's got no idea how to put this, seeing as he seems to be completely in the dark about all that's gone on in the last forty-eight hours… he'd known they wouldn't've got the telegrams, yet, he knows how the Downton post office works, but he'd have thought Lady Rosamund would have at least told them Sybil was in _labour_ … of course, given she hadn't even shown up herself the night prior he supposes she may have had something pressing to attend to. What could be more pressing than this, he couldn't say, but he won't pretend to know anything about the way that woman's mind works.

"Thomas?"

"I don't know that you've heard yet, but Sybil and I are at the hospital–"

" _What?_!"

"–yes but she's fine, we're fine! She had the baby–"

"Did she!"

"Yes, and it's a girl–"

"A girl!"

" _Yes_ , and like I said, they're both well, Sybil will need looking after but–"

"We'll be there straightaway!"

"Er–"

" _Bates_ , my _splendid_ fellow! Good _morning_! You're just in time! We're up to London on the nine o'clock, if you would just..."

Oh, no.

* * *

"...but do you think Rebecca will mind?"

"I think Rebecca will be glad you've not given up the ghost," Thomas says drily. "'Cause of why it's there in the first place."

Sybil heaves a sigh and flops backward onto the pillow. "The surgeon was right to warn you."

"Don't be daft."

"It looks _dreadful._ "

"Have you never seen stitches in your life before, _Nurse Barrow_? Of course it looks _dreadful_ , they've just done 'em this morning."

"But–"

_"...I don't suppose you know who I am?"_

_"Mary, dear, I'm sure these rules are in place for a reason–"_

_"What reason? Why shouldn't I see her? When…"_

Instinctively, he holds the baby closer to his chest.

"You didn't tell them to come _here,_ " Sybil whispers, in what may be genuine horror… Or maybe that's just what _he's_ feeling. He hadn't even realised it'd been long enough for them to _get_ here, but sure enough it's past one o'clock already and now they've got _visitors_ neither of them were expecting.

"I didn't _tell them_ to come anywhere, your dad came up with that on his own, I never even said which hospital–"

The door swings open, clanging into the wall behind it—Thomas stands. He tells himself it's to be polite and not because of the years of training, the same lie he's told himself for the last four years. Mary holds it open til Matthew has entered, then rushes to Sybil's bedside.

" _Darling_ Sybil!"

Sybil, meanwhile, pushes herself up in her hospital bed, grimacing—but it's replaced with a smile as soon as she's settled. "Mary," she says, clasping her hands over her lap, "what a lovely surprise!"

Put her on the bloody stage.

"...has Papa come? Or Mama?"

"No," Mary says, resolute. "No, it's just the two of us– they're back at the house, with Granny."

" _Granny's_ here?"

"And Rose, and Edith, too, though she already was."

"Oh, she didn't say!"

"Yes, well, she's staying with Aunt Rosamund for one reason or another– I don't know that anyone's told her."

"Probably Aunt Rosamund has, we telephoned her yesterday..."

They keep chattering about things that haven't actually got much to do with the baby, so it falls to Thomas to give the time of day to the other person in the room.

"Congratulations to you both," he says brightly, "I'd shake your hand, if…"

If he didn't have a baby (his baby!) in his arms. Thomas nods. "Thank you," he says, somewhat awkwardly. Hopefully it'll just come off as though he's tired.

He _is_ tired.

"You must be proud," says Matthew, "and exhausted?" His smile lights up his whole face, and noticing it is when Thomas realises he's beaming, himself.

"Both of those, yes," Thomas says, and it's true, but when he looks down at her it's easy to forget that he's dead on his feet and in desperate need of a good night's rest. "Er, I wasn't with her the _whole_ time," he's not even certain they'd have allowed that if it were natural, nor how much he'd actually have desired to be there, what with all the other people involved (though he would have been if she'd asked, that's how they'd have done it at home), "but for most of it, since yesterday morning…"

"Is it terribly odd, that I'm envious?"

Given he'd not been around for anything at all, if Thomas remembers correctly, probably not. He doesn't know how he'd be feeling if he'd only walked in after the fact.

"I don't think so."

It's always been strange, interacting with him like they're on even footing when they're not. They may've come from the same place and taken a few steps up in life, they may've married into the same family, but that'll never change the fact that he was his servant, once, and that _Matthew Crawley_ is the heir to the Earl of Grantham while _Thomas Barrow_ almost got the youngest daughter disinherited. (Or whatever it's called when there was nothing to actually inherit in the first place.)

Nor will it change the _other_ thing. Odd, that they're brothers-in-law now. He doesn't like to think much about it but if he's honest with himself that's the real basis for most of his discomfort, and he thinks it may be mutual.

Sometimes they're almost like friends, though, and now must be one of those times.

"Would you like to…?"

"Yes, yes of course," Matthew says, and Thomas leans down to hand her over—he takes her from him with ease, cradles her to his chest. Clearly he's had lots of practice with this sort of thing, which is pleasing, given the boy's probably spending most of his time in a proper nursery. He whispers something Thomas can't hear (maybe it's just his lips moving), tilts her a bit; she blinks her eyes open…

"Have you chosen a name?" he asks.

Thomas shakes his head, but he's still looking at her. "Not yet."

"It'll come," replies Matthew, with a whole lot of surety for a man who's only been a father for six months. "We knew straightaway—then, I'm sure he'll be one of dozens once he's at school."

Oh, God, at some point they're going to have to think about _school_...

"How _is_ baby George?" Thomas asks, getting the thought out of his mind, and the look on Matthew's face after he's said it makes him wonder if perhaps he hadn't been smiling before after all.

"Wonderful," he replies, eager, "splendid. He's growing so fast, you've no idea– not yet, anyway," and _that_ makes Thomas feel his hundredth burst of joy in the day—he hopes this lasts, everything about fatherhood being the most brilliant thing he's ever thought of, the whole _happiest-man-on-earth_ bit, but he knows it's unlikely to, "but you will, in time," _like that_ …

So Thomas drags a chair over and then they're chattering, too. Bonding, or whatever. Over being fathers.

It's maybe the first time in his life he's ever felt like he's got something in common with somebody normal... Something that matters, more like. History aside, _class_ aside, he and Matthew are talking like two people—no, two _men_ —about something they share that _isn't_ being stuck in hell on earth up to their knees in blood and muck, something that in fact is very good and maybe the best thing that's ever happened to either of them, or if not that then high up there at the top of the list. His life's only been like this for half a day, if that, but he feels like a new person. A different version of himself.

One more thing to keep going for.

He's come into a few of those, in the last four years, but given the whole rest of his life it can be easy to forget. That's not going to be the case here.

"...yesterday he even sat up by himself," Matthew says, in the same way somebody might announce having won a great sum of money, or that they're to be wed, or the happening of some other once-in-a-lifetime grand thing. He's smiling like the sun.

This is what he'll be like in six months, isn't it. A glimpse into the future. She's going to do the boring things most every person can do, the things everybody's _expected_ to do and something's wrong if they're not doing them, but she's going to do them for the _first time,_ so it's going to be the most special and exciting thing that's ever been.

And he and Sybil are going to annoy every single person around them by blabbing on about it, but they'll just have to put up with it.

"I know it sounds silly–"

"It doesn't," he interrupts. "It makes sense."

It may not have yesterday, but it does now.

"Mary doesn't always think so."

Thomas blinks.

"Well," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say to that.

"Ah," says Matthew, equally as awkward, "forgive me–"

"Er, is she…?"

He does seem to catch his meaning, thankfully, and though he's stopped smiling there's some relief in his face that there wasn't before. He looks over at her, back to Thomas, and then back to… his niece, Thomas supposes. He's still not come to terms with being an uncle, himself, but the fact that he's made somebody _else_ an uncle (after a fashion) is even more strange. He's glad it's Matthew, though. Some of the other blokes Mary went after before working things out with him were unfortunate.

"Better," he says in a hush, "much better, though there are days I wonder… I wanted to ask you–"

"I don't work with women."

It comes out of his mouth sounding about a hundred times more rude than he wants it to, but Matthew is unperturbed: "well, I've also thought about speaking to Dr Clarkson."

"I wouldn't," Thomas says, too quick. It gives him away. "Not for– for anything else, go to him, yeah, but not about this; he's not very… er, he may have changed, since, but," it's obvious Matthew has no idea what he's on about and frankly it should probably stay that way, "well. If you speak with anybody about her mood it should be your mother, probably."

And it's only very rarely he would recommend that.

"Do you think so?"

"Yeah, she's… she keeps up with things, doesn't she? Developments and such."

And she'll be sympathetic, he thinks. More than most people are, for things like that. At least they're not Victorians.

He wouldn't have cared about this five years ago but look at him now.

"Well, you know her."

"Yes, so… just trust me."

"I've no problem there," Matthew returns, a quirk in his lips, "you've far more training than I."

And he's the one with a nurse for a mother and a doctor for a father… Then, it's a different practice; he knows that well enough by now _._ It's the brain; there's no salve or solution or surgery for it. You can't just cut out the fucked up parts and then stitch it back up again.

Well, he hears people are trying—probably just round the corner from his own bloody workplace people are trying—but he doesn't like to think about it.

"Mind you, that's not to speak ill of Dr Clarkson," adds Thomas, "if it weren't for him today would've gone differently, but…"

"Oh? How so?"

_Well._

* * *

"And how is…" Mary pauses, a look of sour consternation upon her face. By the time she says the name it's like she's been swishing it round in her mouth first. "...Rebecca?"

"Oh! Fine, I think, thank you." Sybil's _beaming,_ though, a regular ray of sunshine like she always is whenever the woman comes up, and that seems to help Mary get over herself. "She'll come round to stay this week; she said she's happy to help with the baby…"

"I expect you'll need it," Matthew says.

"Without a nanny," Mary adds.

It went without saying, though.

For ordinary people, that would be the whole point of the parents and siblings and what have you coming to stay nearby.

"Yes, I'm sure we will," Sybil concedes, "but that _is_ how most people do it," trust her to be able to put it into words and sound polite when she does it, too, "everyone pitches in."

"Of course," says Mary smoothly.

Thomas wonders sometimes what it's like for them—every time they visit they act as if they've been whisked away to some far off country.

"We're very lucky, she's more experienced than I am," she adds, "she was the oldest, growing up… but I'm to remain in hospital for at least a few days, so I don't know when she'll– Thomas, did you ever–?"

"Already sent a telegram."

"Oh, _good_ , good _._ " She sighs, sitting back and closing her eyes, her head drooping to the side, but she keeps the baby close to her, her arms and hands aware. "What day is it?"

She'll be the best mother there ever was.

"Sunday," answers Thomas.

"She'll not be working, then, that's good… did you send it before or after–"

"Both."

"My, you're very organised," Mary says, primly, her head tilted, her smile stiff, "though we might have appreciated the same courtesy."

Matthew gives her a sharp look.

"Well," Thomas says, trying to separate the part of him that knows how to be tactful when things like this happen from the part of him that says to roll over and accept it because you-haven't-got-a-say-even-if-they're-wrong, the one that rears its head every time something like this comes up, "you had it, actually, but by the time the delivery boy got to the house you may've all been on the way to York already."

Not his best, not his worst.

Probably he could have apologised for a misunderstanding. People do that.

Mary blinks at him.

It's sort of threatening.

"—they don't usually send those things up to the house in the middle of the night," he adds, shifting in his chair, "telegrams and the like, they wait til half-eight or so, usually, unless it's changed, and I don't know that I put that it was urgent–"

"Wasn't it urgent?"

"Well, yes, but anybody who looked at it could see that." He tries to look at ease but he's sure whatever thing resembling a smile is at his lips looks even more forced than Mary's does. "Take it up with the Wigans for not wanting to disturb you at one o'clock in the morning, not me."

He was trained in no-expressions-at-all, not fake ones, but the latter seems like all these people were brought up for.

Sybil's come out of it, over the last four years, but it took a while at first… she's even better at hiding her feelings than he is, because she can put on another face to do it. He just gets awkward and statuesque.

"But couldn't you have–"

"I'm sure we'll speak with them," Matthew interrupts, "but let's not talk about it now—we're here, aren't we?"

He gets the sense that communicating with Mary lately has been like trodding a minefield. Or, more than usual, at least. If this is _better_ he's very glad he didn't see the worst of it. Thomas can't blame her, exactly, he's never been known for being cheery himself (and actually the more he's thought about it the more they have in common, not that she'd ever see that).

But there's no need to take it out on him.

Or the actual servants, who are probably getting the brunt of it. Poor Mrs Bates.

He's lucky, though. For the first time in his life he's got something to look at during the awkward conversations he actually wants to lay eyes on… she's asleep, again, and he doesn't know if that's normal, but apparently she's suckled more than enough already and he knows firsthand that she's got a strong pair of lungs, so he's trying not to worry about it.

"...what about John, then, Thomas, how is he?"

How _is_ he, indeed.

This might be the worst olive branch Mary's ever held out for him.

"Er," Thomas says.

"They don't see one another anymore," Sybil cuts in. Jumping to his rescue, even lying down like that with her eyes shut looking a moment away from sleep with a baby in her arms. It's been months since he was in the picture, but then, none of the Crawleys have been up in ages, given everything that's gone on at Downton, and these two are the only ones who knew about him to begin with and it's not something they ever stick in letters, so he can't fault her for asking even if he'd like to. (He would.) "Everything's just been so busy, lately… Did I tell you Thomas was promoted?"

Those things aren't connected but it's a change of subject in his favour and charitable to him, to act like they are, so he'll play along with it.

"To manager," Sybil adds, "in the mens' wing."

And it's still less responsibility than he'd had in the war, but he gets paid much better, so he does his best not to complain.

They're going to need that. He doesn't want to take any money they haven't earned, and Sybil's on his side, thankfully, but if it comes to a choice between principle and putting food on the table, that last one's going to win out every time.

As long as they never have to move to Downton.

Millions of other people live like this, though, so they can do it, too.

"Well, I've always been in the mens' wing," Thomas says. "Don't think they want to hear about that, though," and if for some reason they do he hopes the good breeding kicks in and they're too polite to say it, "and you look like you're in need of rest, so maybe we all should…"

"He's right," Matthew concurs, "I'm afraid showing up unexpectedly may not have been the brightest idea–"

"Might I stay?"

"Of course, Mary," says Sybil, lifting her head, taking her hand, smiling like she does. Out of nowhere Mary looks halfway to tears. "Of course, I'm so glad you've come."

This time he knows she means it.

* * *

"I should tell you they're expecting she'll come to Grantham House," says Matthew. He's very cautious about it, but this isn't the first go-round for either of them.

"I'm sure they're expecting a lot of things," Thomas replies, smoke rolling out of his mouth—harsh and rich and unfamiliar. The last time he had a cigar was probably the last time he was forced to dine properly at Downton. (Which if he has his way will have been the _final_ time—Sybil can go all she likes, but he doesn't want to leave everything about his old life behind, either, and he didn't marry her with the expectation he'd be waited on hand and foot after.)

He's really fucking bad at it.

 _I thought this was meant to be my responsibility,_ he'd said, when Matthew had pulled out the travelling case, and he'd said, _were you going to take it on?,_ and then he'd had to say that when leaving the house he hadn't thought about anything except Sybil making it out of the operating theatre alive, actually, and now they're sitting here in the freezing hospital courtyard smoking them together anyway, because Matthew hadn't taken it as rude. Nor had he actually expected him to ringlead for all the traditions to begin with.

No surprise there, really. He's always been the most understanding.

"...and I haven't got a problem with that, necessarily, and I don't think she has, either, but unless they're rearranging the ballroom I don't see how it's gonna work."

"I did bring that up," he says wryly. "Apparently Mrs Bute is taking care of it."

 _Mrs Bute_ can hardly take care of her own chatelaine.

"What, is she installing a lift?"

It might not have come off right, but he hadn't meant it to be crude, just it's ridiculous they'd think that–

"They'll have to eventually," he replies, more serious this time, but there's still a note of irony in his voice that Thomas suspects is mostly there for his own sanity. He looks over at him; their eyes meet.

Thomas doesn't insult him by asking the question aloud.

"I don't think it's within my rights to expect another miracle in my lifetime," Matthew says anyway, the hint of a frown at his brow, "I've had more than my fair share."

"Was a miracle you got out of that with your limbs intact, from what I heard."

"It was a miracle I got out of it at all," he says, more bitter than Thomas has ever heard him. "Do you know, they said the same thing when I was shelled."

Like it's a bad thing.

"Well, that's already two more miracles than most people get," Thomas says, cautious. "Maybe you're just somebody who gets a lot of them."

He can count at least three more off the top of his head—the man's been luckier than most people can ever hope in their lives to be.

The question he has though is, if it was like that before he ended up the heir to an earldom, or if that was some sort of a turning point for him, if going with the Crawleys means you've got to have plenty of bad things happen to you but you get out of all of them by the skin of your teeth.

It feels like it.

Even when he was a servant, it felt like it.

Some sort of curse and blessing all wrapped in one—you get to struggle and suffer, but in the end you'll come out in one piece, as long as you keep your toes in line, kiss the right boots, change the misfitting parts of you.

Sybil's noticed it, too.

"Things've changed, since the war, maybe if you get the right care–"

"Don't lie, Thomas, it does very little good in the long run."

Not the first time in his life he's heard that one… Thomas takes a deep breath, sighs. It's not inconspicuous, and the cigar's not nearly as good for his nerves as a cigarette would be.

Matthew's looking at him too sharply for his comfort.

"Probably tired of hearing it, aren't you," he mumbles.

"I am, rather," though he sighs, too, and then looks away: first at his lap, then at the sky, which is gray. It feels like it should be sunny out, bright and warm. That's England for them. "I'm lucky to be alive; I can be thankful for that."

"And you're around to watch your son grow up," Thomas points out, though whether or not it's something to draw attention to he's not actually sure. Most of the things people do to bring up children require working legs, in his experience. "Plenty of blokes who didn't get that."

"Quite."

Well, that answers his question.

"They do know she's not going to be back tonight, don't they?" he asks, circling back. "Or even tomorrow."

He nods. "Mary and I will play messenger, just to be sure."

Good, as long as they listen.

"I'm sure she'd like it if they visited her here, though," Thomas says. It's true; she'd be delighted. "If they gave warning… and speaking of visits, she's also going to want Rebecca around, so there's another problem to sort out where the house is concerned."

"Crikey, I hadn't thought of that."

Nobody has, knowing them. Knowing what all they don't know.

"Yeah, well, it'll be the first thing on her mind when somebody tells her."

* * *

"Then I won't go."

"I don't think Papa intended to give you a choice."

"That's all well and good," Sybil retorts, her voice raised, "but he's got to accept that I'm twenty-six-years old, I'm a grown woman, I'm old enough to make my own decisions and I have been for _years_ now, or I wouldn't be married, I wouldn't be living in London, nor would I have had a baby at all–"

"Darling, be reasonable."

"I _am_ being reasonable," she says, "Thomas and I have a perfectly suited house, and he'll take very good care of me and so will she, and I'd be very happy to have you visit, but I don't need anything more than that."

"But surely you _want_ more."

"No, I don't."

"Sybil, really, this is very childish–"

"What's childish about wanting to raise my own daughter? We _don't_ need a nursemaid, we _don't_ need a nanny, and I don't want to be locked up away from the person I love–"

"Goodness, you won't be _locked up_ ," Mary huffs. "We only want what's best for you."

"You don't _know_ what's best for me!"

"You've hardly shown that _you_ do _._ "

"None of you do, you don't know what's best for any of us, not me, not Thomas, not our _baby_ , you never have, and you don't have the right to make up my mind–"

"I think you'd better leave," Thomas interrupts. They're not the most forceful words he could have chosen but he says them loud and cold and clear.

Sybil quiets.

Mary glares daggers at him. "May I ask why?"

"Because this isn't helping her blood pressure, is why." Mary won't look at his face when he talks to her, so he looks instead to Sybil, who's got tears welled up in her eyes. "Or you could stay and keep on harping at her, if you'd like to see what a seizure looks like up close."

It does the trick, and she stands to go, once more with her elegant and unruffled air—but before she goes she lets slip a few condescending words that she'll probably regret later and that Sybil will forgive her for too quickly.

Matthew grabs his attention on his way out the door.

"Before I forget," he whispers, a furrow in his brow, "I'm afraid we may have blown your cover– the secretary was rather surprised by the request to see _Lady_ Sybil Barrow."

"She's not going to like that."

"Let's hope it's not for much longer, then."

They can hope all they like, but hoping's never been worth much and that isn't going to change now.

* * *

After Mary and Matthew leave it becomes clear very quickly that she's been putting on a happy face, when it comes to how much pain she's in. The shouting match doubtless didn't help, and nor, probably, does them bringing the baby in and out all day. It'd be easier if they got to have her around the whole time.

What helps there is knowing that they will, soon. That she'll be theirs to look after, and the only charge she'll be under in the future is theirs and that of people they pick and choose.

Thomas stays at Sybil's bedside til the nurses throw him out.

* * *

Home feels different without her there.

He tidies from the rush out the door the night prior, makes up the bassinet. They've got everything they need here; anything at Grantham House that ever resembled a nursery hasn't for years—she was right, about their place being _suited. Only he's also not daft enough to believe she wouldn't be more comfortable there, if they took the time to allow it to be. If they let the right people in. _The right people_ means something different to Sybil than to the rest of the Crawleys, though, and probably than to everyone else, too. She's the most generous person he's ever met._

__

She had to have been, to marry him.

The nearest post office is closed; he walks farther than he'd like to send Rebecca another telegram. He never had to pay the extra fee for Sundays til today.

Names keep popping up in his head, but none of them feel right.

* * *

It doesn't turn out as bad as it could, in the end. Things work out in one way or another; nobody has to compromise on _all_ their principles. The people who need to see each other do, and the people who don't, don't. Nobody makes him wear white tie, and the food's much better than anything they would have come up with themselves.

The elephants in the room get draped over, basically.

The two of them go home for good just in time to not lose their heads… and they both agree that baby Imogen likes it there best.

**Author's Note:**

> Do not think too hard about hospital etiquette and medical procedures of the early 1920s..... this is an amalgamation of many sources both legitimate and invented. I had a long notes section explaining these things as well as, the structure of the fic and why it cuts out what it does but then my browser crashed and it is 2:30 am and i cnba to write that all over again. Rip. oh well.
> 
> i'm writing these things completely out of order so literally who knows what's going to get published next. we'll see i guess!
> 
> [blah blah on tumblr as @combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)


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